


A Divine Intemperance

by birdsofshore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Brief mention of canonical child abuse, M/M, Masturbation, Pensieves, Smut, Switching, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/pseuds/birdsofshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> I like to watch. Sweet Merlin, do I like to watch. And, let's not be coy, I like to wank while I'm watching. That's kind of the point, don't you think?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Divine Intemperance

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [Omi_Ohmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Ohmy), [traintracks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/traintracks), and [raitala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raitala) for all your help with this. And big kisses to the mods for running such a corking fest.
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson: _Through those old Grounds of memory / The sauntering alone / Is a divine intemperance / A prudent man would shun._

I like to watch. Sweet Merlin, do I like to watch. And, let's not be coy, I like to wank while I'm watching. That's kind of the point, don't you think?

What do I like to watch? This: Harry Potter, lying on my bed, his skin pale and perfect against the dark red sheets, his back arched with pleasure. Every muscle taut and defined in the tension of this moment just before orgasm. The drops of perspiration glistening on his top lip, his jaw clenched and the tendons in his neck standing out as he teeters on the edge. His hand, his beautiful hand, moving over his prick; his heavy balls drawn up, his shaft thick and flushed, the head swollen and shining with pre-come.

I want to bottle this moment, to snatch it from the air and keep it forever. And I will, oh, yes, indeed I will. This moment is mine, all mine, and I will guard it as jealously as I would any great treasure. It will take pride of place in my collection, the debauched jewel in my voyeuristic crown.

~~~

What can I tell you about being a voyeur? I bet you think you know all about it already: how I lurk behind trees wearing a grubby old cloak, waiting to peep at schoolgirls. Not quite. The facts are slightly different.

My tastes have refined themselves over the years. I've always liked to watch other people enjoying themselves: couples, usually, although solo acts were always a pleasant diversion. You never know when the next such opportunity will arise, however, so I made sure I decanted my recollections into a vial while they were nice and fresh.

Watching these scenes later, in the Pensieve I obtained specially for the purpose, was almost as pleasurable - in fact, in some ways, solitary viewing was far superior. Nobody expected me to join in, and I could look as long and as avidly as I liked. I could walk around, even, to survey the action from all angles and examine the tortured twist of a face teetering on the brink as closely as I desired. I could get near enough to hear each hungry gasp, the slap of flesh on flesh, the greedy lapping of mouths and the slick slide of sweat and spunk.

_Some_ people adore being watched - crave it, even - but the same old faces parading the same old blowsy acts grows sickeningly stale. And the ones who aren't exhibitionists - the vast majority of people - are so terribly mundane. They don't _want_ anyone to sit and observe their more interesting moments, and if they try, it makes them awfully self-conscious.

No, taking part in the show myself, in the more usual fashion, proved the best way to get a steady supply of fresh memories for later perusal. And, forgive me if I sound complacent, but I never had any trouble finding willing participants to join me in trying out the things I wanted to watch later.

This didn't always work out as planned; often my co-stars were offended if I didn't want a repeat performance at a later date, and some even wanted something more meaningful. Rather tiresome. But watching alone, afterwards... ah, that was a thing of wonder. To let my eyes feast on these private deeds and witness how people behaved in their most intimate moments was a special privilege not granted to the common herd.

By this time I was amassing something of a library and felt most contented with my little interest. My mother always said a gentleman should have a hobby. And if mine was rather outside the norm, well, what of it?

About two years ago I had my brainwave: genius in its simplicity. I brought the idea to a clever fellow I know who has a workshop near Diagon, and it took him no time to master the necessary charms. Brewing the Mnemonic Solution, then transferring the concoction to a pair of specially designed goggles, in essence a pair of miniature Pensieves strapped to one's face, this was an easy matter. In fact the trickiest part of the whole affair was learning to attach the goggles to one's face without spilling the silvery half-gas, half-liquid Solution; however, once buckled and adjusted, they were watertight, and functioned beautifully, no matter what position or angle one's head adopted.

My craftsman suggested producing them commercially and was of the opinion that they would be a roaring success, but I prefer to keep them for my own amusement only. I admit, I am not too fond of sharing.

Reclining in comfort on the bed or sofa and watching the captivating scenes unfold was far preferable to sitting hunched over a table, wary of spillage. After the invention of what I call my Personal Pensieve, I spent numerous happy afternoons in the comfortable armchair in my study, reminiscing about oh so many pleasant and intriguing scenarios, my hand moving with practised languor over my prick.

Then came Harry. Oh, Harry. He shattered my solitary idyll with one blink of his mesmerising eyelashes. It turns out I don't have so much a type as an ideal, a realisation of perfection: Harry James Potter is it. From the wild rumpus of hair atop his head, to his (also quite hairy) toes, he's so far up my street that he's more or less battering down my front door.

Falling for Harry is probably the closest this ex-Death Eater will ever get to paradise: terrifying and glorious all at once. His unique mix of wholesome and filthy is an eternal delight to me; the way he can radiate virtue and heroism one moment and then turn around and have his tongue lodged blissfully far up my arse the next. He's so sweetly debauched, so deliciously eager where the pleasures of the flesh are concerned, that watching the Boy Who Lived get thoroughly corrupted, over and over and over again, is something that's never going to get old, no matter how many times I see it. The way he throws himself into it, as if determined to suck the marrow from every situation. He makes the fools from my previous Pensieve memories look like insincere puppets, their strings pulled by an inept master.

I even enjoy myself - really fucking enjoy myself - when we're in bed together. How could I not, with the Saviour's body laid out beneath me, hard and waiting, like a buffet of everything I could ever hunger for? But, oh, Merlin, I still have that overriding desire to watch, to own, to squirrel away where no-one, absolutely no-one, can touch but me. Where no-one, absolutely no-one, can take what is precious to me and taint it. Because I will never again allow that to happen.

So, at first, Harry and I made many happy memories together, and I collected them all and transferred them to my cabinet, the repository of my treasures, so laden with protective spells that it would take some kind of apocalypse for anyone else to get inside. For the first time in my life, I'd found someone I didn't want to see performing with anyone else. That thorny issue of sharing again. But Harry is more than happy for me to do all kinds of filthy and wonderful things to him, and indeed vice versa, and then for me to watch them in the Pensieve afterwards. He even likes viewing, himself, on occasion, and then, after he's watched, is inspired to further carnal acts; it's really a win / win situation.

However gratifying this state of affairs, I still yearned for something it seemed Harry could not give me. I wanted to watch as Harry lost himself in solo pleasure, to see his body ravished and rapturous by his own hand. I wanted to know how he touched himself when there was no-one there to see. I did ask him to oblige me in this, very early on. I promised to reciprocate, even to go first; most people enjoy such things, after all. But he only laughed – blushed – deflected – demurred – and, at a later date, when I pushed it, flat out refused.

He wanted to indulge me. He really did. But when I heard the story, I realised it was a hopeless cause. His face wore the look of a lost little boy as confided the atrocious damage those unspeakable Muggle cunts had done. His uncle had caught Harry once, wanking quietly in his room. It was probably one of Harry's only joys in life at the time, poor little bastard, and that outrageous deviant shamed Harry in front of his whole family, and beat him soundly, too. Just thinking of it now, I can feel the corrosive bile of rage rising in my throat.

Since that day, Harry took great pains to be silent and guarded whenever he heard the siren call to self-pleasure. It became second nature for him to be utterly furtive, on edge for signs of anyone approaching. The lack of privacy involved in dormitory living only exacerbated matters. It seemed he was as unable to toss one off in front of an avid audience as he was to grow wings and sing like a blackbird.

I reassured him. Comforted him. But all the while, I thirsted for it. I was driven mad by the idea of seeing it, of seeing him finally throwing off those inhibitions, of seeing something that no-one but I had ever seen before. It became an obsession. I confess, in my torment of wanting, I did spy on him once, in the shower. I am not proud of this. He caught me, and he was... not pleased. It took some work to rebuild his trust. Not to mention finding a counter-curse for boils on the scrotum.

I wouldn't try that again. I had learned that I don't want to peep, like some Knockturn pervert. No, what I want is to be _shown._ I want to be _given_ this treasure. Not to steal it, so that it would always be tainted by the stink of perfidy. I want to be trusted, to be granted this privilege, to have this secret shared with me. I long to be worthy.

Which brings us here. We are in bed, of course. We're often in bed. Or, on the sofa. The rug in front of the fire. The shower - oh, Harry's sweet firm arse with the water sluicing down over it. Up against the wall, legs trembling as I drive into him, his hands scrabbling for purchase. The kitchen table - not so often. It's novel, but basically lacks comfort. The armchair in my study, his knees drawn up in abandon against the green leather - yes, yes, ohhh, yes.

But we're in bed, and Harry is more or less as aroused as he ever gets, which is to say, very. He's at the clutching-the-sheets, cursing me, begging to come kind of stage. I do like watching that, later. I want my man in Diagon to work on a charm that means I can pause at certain parts of the memory, watch it again and again and again. Maybe in slow motion. Harry says the Muggles have a thing called video; he says I'd love it, but I'm sticking with magic for now, thanks very much.

I'm skimming my tongue slowly up and over the head of his cock, a finger swirling lazily around his arsehole and never quite going where he wants it. I wait until his fists are threatening to dislodge handfuls of my hair, and then I casually ask if he'd like to watch something.

"Jesus!" He gives a breathy moan. "I just want to come."

I roll his balls in my hand, just the way he likes it. "Please, Harry. Would you? There's one I really want to show you."

"Why now?" He's gasping and laughing. "Oh god, if you must. Go on, then."

I have the memory all ready in the personal Pensieve, of course. I help him put the goggles on, my hands trembling a little and fumbling the straps. Then he lies back again and I see his face start to react to what he's seeing.

We made this memory only last week, and he hasn't viewed it before. It was something rather special. I had to more or less goad him into really giving it to me, but once he got going... well. I could feel it for days.

He's gone completely still, focusing on the scene. I remember how it started - I was deliberately winding him up a bit, being a bit superior, sniping at him in the way I know perfectly well still gets his goat. I even called him Potter a few times. He went right along with it, started Malfoying me back, and for a few minutes it was just like we were back in sixth year, only more naked. I threw some snide remark at him and he told me I could stop being a smart-arse and suck his cock, so I did.

The real Harry on the bed in front of me gives out a little moan. His cock's still swollen and needy, but not getting any action, while he watches Pensieve Harry get a thorough, if rather smirky cock-sucking. I take pity on him and draw him into my mouth again, letting him thrust into the softness of it.

"Ahhh... Draco. You were a right bastard last week." His voice is ragged around the edges.

He thought I was a bastard that time? Lord only knows what he's going to make of this.

I suck off with a noisy slurp. "You loved it."

It's a strange feeling, being immersed in the Pensieve memories while having a conversation with someone who's in the same room as your physical self, but Harry's well used to it by now. He shifts on the bed, lunging up towards my mouth again. He can't see what he's doing, of course, effectively blindfolded by the Personal Pensieve. "I... ahh, I did,” he stutters. “God, you look incredible sucking me."

I indulge in a sly smile, knowing he can't see. I'd really gone for it, knowing Harry's reaction to watching this memory was crucial to my plan. I'd hollowed my cheeks, let my eyes flutter closed in ecstasy, not to mention palming my own erection from time to time. Faced with Harry's thick, perfect prick bobbing up in my face, it was no trouble to give a heartfelt portrayal of cock-worship. I dip my head and do the same now, just for the sheer pleasure of it. In no time at all Harry's getting that tell-tale flush on his chest that means he's not far from coming. In my head, I send up a silent apology, then pull off and sit back on my heels.

Harry bunches his fists in the sheets. "Draco... Jesus. I'm so close."

I wait a minute in silence, watching the movements of his jaw, the tension on his brow revealing his absorption in the scene that's playing out in front of his eyes.

"Draco... " His voice approaches a whine. "I'm dying here."

I run one finger down his chest, over his stomach, feeling the muscles tighten and ripple under my touch. "Do you remember what happened next?"

He groans. "Of course I do."

"You'll enjoy watching that." I try to keep my voice neutral.

"God. Touch me. Suck me. Fuck, I need you." His forehead is beaded with sweat.

I wait another minute until I'm fairly sure the Pensieve performance will have moved on to Act Two. In the memory, I had interrupted that rather fine blow job to get mouthy again, to taunt him about how he hardly ever topped. How he wasn't even man enough to really give it to me when I needed a good fucking. That kind of bullshit. It worked like a dream. I was on all fours with my arse in the air before I knew it, Harry pounding away behind me.

Oh, yes. He's definitely got to that bit now. I can see it on his face. Merlin, his hand actually twitched towards his cock for a second there, but he quickly pulled it back. "Draco... please.”

Isn't that almost too sweet? His whole body is crying out for my touch, his face transported by longing. I can't believe how insanely good this is going to be when I watch it later.

I prop myself up on my elbow, my mouth close to his ear.

"So sorry, Harry."

"What?" His cock looks as if it's fucking empty air, throbbing and twitching up and down with need. Can't be very satisfying, compared to what he's seeing in the Pensieve.

"I'm sorry. I'm not going to touch you. You'll have to do it yourself."

He's no fool. In a flash, he knows what this is all about, and for a second his face darkens and I tense, thinking I might have finally gone too far. Then he swallows and says, "But I can't."

"Harry." I touch his face, draw my hand across the sharp dark stubble of his jaw.

"I can't, Draco. I just can't." There's that lost look again, his voice cracks a little, and I think, _oh fuck, Draco, what have you done now, you complete tosser?_ My hand reaches to undo the strap on the Pensieve, and then, I don't know, I just glance down his body again, and there it is. I wouldn't have believed it possible, but he's harder than he was. His cock is fucking _harder_ , and it's dripping pre-come onto his stomach.

"Harry." I watch his body, not his face. His face is all twisted up. But his body is poised, and just so turned on and ready. "Harry, touch yourself."

"I can't." Again the whine. He sounds about twelve. "I just feel dirty."

"It's not dirty." I move closer to him, until my legs are touching his, and I can wrap an arm across his chest. He shivers and fidgets, but I hold him gently like that. "It's not dirty. It's good, you know it's good."

I'm lying, of course. It's dirty as hell, that's what makes it so fucking fantastic.

His legs move restlessly. "I know it's good when I'm by myself, but I just can't do it when you're watching."

I stroke across his shoulder. "Can you still see what's happening in the Pensieve?"

His Adam's apple bobs and he stills for a minute. "Yes."

"We don't often do it that way, do we?"

His face is relaxing again, shifting into something half fierce, half tender, as he watches himself fucking me, relentless and powerful. "No."

"And you liked it, didn't you? You liked fucking me like that."

He groans a wordless reply.

"You were so hot, Harry. You look so hot, giving it to me, and you're so hot now, like this."

His cock is so dark and full, curving up towards the ceiling. I don't think I've ever seen it quite like this before, almost cruelly engorged. I can smell the desperation in the air.

"You make me feel so good. Watch it, Harry; watch us. Watch me, wanting you. Watch me, taking it. I took it all, didn't I? Because, Merlin, I need you. I need you to give it to me. I need everything you have."

His mouth is hanging open and he lets out a sound of strangled pain as he brings his arms over his head, stretching into the most gorgeous lines, arching his back, seeking a warm body, a willing mouth. It looks like exquisite torture. I feel a pang of remorse, but remind myself he's quite capable of ripping off the Pensieve, of storming from the room, if he wanted to.

My mouth is very close to his ear. I press my lips briefly to his throat, then whisper. "Do it for me, Harry. I want you to do it. Think how good it will feel. How much you want it. Think how hot, how perfect you'll look. How perfect it will feel, watching us and remembering how it was, how we are together."

I take his hand and gently, gently, move it down onto his stomach. I let it rest there. I don't force it. It has to be him, it has to come from him.

I feel his body quivering with tension. As a boy, I used to play the cello, and Harry's responsiveness has often put me in mind of those days, when I thrilled to the tunes I would coax from the wood and sheep gut. But his face shows anguish, not delight, and I fear perhaps he is more like an arrow, drawn back as far as it will go and about to fly off out of sight, gone forever.

He shifts again and I think I've lost him, feel an icy trickle in the pit of my stomach, but then his hand begins to move, slow and stilted, but travelling unquestioningly towards his cock.

I hold my breath, and at that moment I don't need the Pensieve to trap a fragment of time in amber. Everything hangs, suspended; then Harry's fingers grasp his prick and the world turns once more and my heart is pounding against my ribs.

I want to sit bolt upright, to get a better view, so as not to miss anything, but instead I move cautiously, as if dealing with some skittish, feral creature. His hand is holding, just very loosely holding his cock. His breath is coming in shallow bouts. I feel an instinct to soothe him, and brush reassuring strokes across his hip with my fingertips. He startles at first, then leans into my touch.

His hand curls around his shaft. His throat works with an audible sound. "You bastard," he croaks.

Part of me wants to laugh. This is actually going to happen. He moves his fingers a little, pulling the foreskin forward a fraction of an inch. "Oh, god," he says.

"What's happening in the Pensieve, Harry?"

"I'm fucking you." He moves his hand back the other way, just a very little. "Oh, Christ." His fingers are thick and capable. I know what they feel like when they're stroking a cock. "I'm fucking you really hard."

I manage to get into a sitting position, staring down at his body, the coiled desire in it, the heat. The virility and power.

His finger and thumb make an O and he pushes into it, once, twice. "Oh, god. Oh, fuck."

My body feels like it's burning, hot trails sweeping along my spine and spreading right out to my fingers and toes. I watch and watch. I wish I had a hundred eyes, to watch him.

His other arm is still flung above his head and he turns his face towards it, partly shielding it from my view.

"Harry," I say.

He whimpers, biting his lip, white teeth digging into the plump swell of it. His hand is wrapped all the way around now, and moving slowly along the entire length of his shaft. His balls look achingly full. "I'm so fucking close." It sounds like a sob.

"Harry, let me watch. Let me see you." I stroke his face, cupping his cheek with my hand. "It's not dirty. It's the most bloody beautiful thing I've ever seen."

The leather of the goggles is cold against my fingers, and I think about taking them off, but then something in his face loosens, and he's thrusting powerfully and throwing his head back, his throat a peerless arc, his cock pushing in and out of his fist.

I let my own hand fall to clench around my clamouring prick, run my eyes greedily all over him, soaking up every detail. It's as if... there are no words for this. The sight of Harry Potter, right on the brink, coming apart so utterly and perfectly: it's like poetry. I can't quite believe he's giving me this gift. I feel myself shaking with the power of it, the potency.

The surreal thought occurs to me that I could make him watch himself, doing this, later, and then save the memory of that, creating a heavenly cycle of endless wanking and watching and wanking and watching, an Ouroborous of masturbatory voyeurism.

Just when I think it can't get any better, he pauses, holds that incredible stretch and grips his erection tight. His lips part and a tangled sound comes deep from his chest, and then, "Draco... Are you watching, Draco?"

I feel like I'm having an orgasm with my eyes. I stare, babbling: "I'm watching, fuck, I'm watching. I'll never stop watching you, never."

His chest heaves, his face contorts and then he's shooting onto his stomach, great strands of white, his flawless body straining upwards.

My hand moves of its own accord; a handful of strokes is all that it takes before I feel white-hot pleasure boiling within me, spilling out onto the sheets and splashing against Harry's skin.

Harry sinks into the mattress for a moment, utterly spent, then rolls onto his side and pulls at the clasp of the goggles. I'm still quivering with aftershocks as I undo the straps for him and toss the Pensieve aside, gazing at his face anxiously. His expression is dazed, but his eyes are clear and so full of light. I watch as he stretches and rubs his face, touched with something close to reverence at how this man makes me feel.

It's a sublime moment, but I can't relax, until—

My cock's barely softening as I reach down and snatch at the vial, the one I left next to the bed, that held the memory of me and Harry from last week. It seemed so precious at the time, and now, so unimportant compared to the priceless new cargo I have in mind for it. I'm ashamed of my haste, but, dear Merlin... I feel if only I can transfer this, the Holy Grail of wank-memories, safely to my treasure-store, that I could happily jettison the rest of my collection. Well, perhaps. Or perhaps not. No, not quite yet.

My hands are in danger of shaking badly as I place my wand to my temple. Oh, god, what if, after all this, what if I were to somehow _lose_ the memory? My stomach lurches and I take a deep breath to steady myself. I remind myself I have done this hundreds of times without mishap, and begin the familiar process of drawing the gossamer-like strands deftly from my mind.

When I've finished, I lie back on the bed with him, part of me fearful of my reception after the unseemly scramble to bottle this memory. He looks serious, but twines our fingers together, joining them. We lie on our sides, not speaking, eyes wandering over each other's faces, listening to our breathing become more even. His magic reaches out to mine and I feel it cradling me, like a warm bath lapping around us both, making me want to squirm with contentment.

If I were to siphon _this_ moment off and stopper it up in one of my little vials, I could watch it again, later, as many times as I want. But something tells me that nothing is going to live up to seeing this for real, lying here with Harry's humid breath ghosting against my cheek, his face at peace and full of the kind of acceptance I doubt I will ever truly deserve.

“You see me.” A crease flickers between his eyebrows, and is gone. “You see who I am.”

His voice is tinged with surprise, but it's not a question. I nod anyway.

“All of me. Not just... the hero.”

“Yes, Harry, I see all of you.” My free hand toys with the softness of his hair, winding a curl around one finger.

His eyes are dark and feral, the pupils flooding his irises. It almost hurts to look at him, but I don't turn away.

His words spill out, scratchy, edged with violence. “I'll show you, Draco. I'll show you everything.”

It sounds like the most divine threat. My chest feels as if I've just drawn in a lungful of sunlight. His hand is so warm in mine, his pulse surging with life, each beat of it a little drum that sings _now, now, now, now._

Harry leans in for a searching kiss, hands stroking, possessive, across the curves of my back. I suppose this is how life goes, minute by minute. Like trying to hold drops of mercury – each one a shining, perfect sphere to wonder at, and then it slips away. Perhaps one day I won't need anything more than this. To live, to hunger for him, to chance, to dare to take each moment as it comes and then to let it go, in the knowledge that there will be a thousand more just as sweet with which to sate myself. One day.


End file.
